Blurry
by SweetAsSugarQuills
Summary: -Name subject to change-  A story I've been playing with in my mind. I'd love some people to read and review.. I'm up for ideas. Lemme know if I should continue!


**Disclaimer: **Anything recognizable from the world of Harry Potter is not mine – it belongs to JK Rowling. But don't we all wish we were her?

Draco's fists clenched and unclenched as he walked angrily through the deserted corridors. He just didn't know _why_ he felt this way. He didn't even know_how_ he felt, he'd never experienced this emotion before. The uncertainty of what he was feeling made him want to punch something - but the nearest thing was a stone gargoyle, and he knew even Crabbe and Goyle wouldn't punch that.. or perhaps they would. But he certainly wouldn't. A billion thoughts raced through his mind, but not one stuck. What was it that was making him so crazy? He was certainly glad that the castle was deserted, because if anyone heard his muttered string of profanities and grumblings, they'd certainly be alarmed.

He furrowed his brow with frustration - what _was_ it? Images were flashing through his mind as he sorted through what was going on in his life. A dark mark on a pale forearm, black and menacing even in his mind's eye. His father's stern, cold face, obviously displeased. A pile of scrolls, sentences scratched through as though an essay was in the makings. No, it wasn't any of those things, he decided.

As he turned a corner, something caught his steel grey eyes, just on the edge of his peripheral vision. Upon second glance, he realized it was just a flame from a torch. But that flame made him stop in his tracks, his face went blank and his muscles tensed. That red, flickering flame reminded him of _something_, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It triggered a memory in the back of his mind.. a flame rounding a corner towards Gryffindor tower. No.. not a flame. _Hair!_It suddenly hit him, and his fists clenched again as he slumped against the wall.

_Weasley._ Of all things that could of been bothering him, it was the littlest Weasley. For Merlin's sake, he should've been worrying about his Father's desire for him to bow down to the Dark Lord. But no, he was thinking of none other than Ginny Weasley. Now he remembered.

*~*~* _Flashback *~*~*_

Draco was minding his own business, finishing a potions project in the dungeons. Snape had assigned them work in class, but Draco had skipped class for his own reasons. He'd made up some story and asked Snape if he could do it after classes, to which the professor agreed, being fond of his Slytherin student. He'd left to get dinner, leaving the blonde haired boy in the potions classroom alone to finish his Amortentia potion for his make-up work. That was when the potions door swung open, and none other than the littlest weasel herself had stumbled in, obviously fuming with anger. She turned, and her eyes widened like a deer in the headlights before her expression turned to one of distaste. The redhead started to lash out a remark about her least favorite Slytherin, but his cunning tongue cut her off.

"What are _you_ doing here, Weasel?" he snapped, chopping up the last ingredient for the potion with unnecessary violence.

"That is none of your business, Malfoy." she replied, disgruntled.

She was not in the mood to be interrogated by anyone, especially someone she hated. Malfoys and Weasleys didn't like each other. That's just how it was. She didn't know much about him, but what was else was there to know besides the fact that he was a cruel, snappy, son of a Death Eater?

Draco hadn't replied, as he was apparently busy stirring his potion. Finally it turned purple as it was complete. He took a whiff of it as he poured some into a vial for Snape to grade. To him, it smelled of a burning fireplace, a brand new broomstick, and pine trees.

Whenever he was home at Malfoy Manor, he tended to need to escape. His father was never a very welcoming person, and half the time, recently, he'd been pounding Draco on joining the Dark Lord at the end of the year. At those times, he either sat in the library with a cup of tea in front of the fireplace, or went out to fly. He'd always fly to a small clearing in the forest, where there was nothing but the crisp air and the pines. As for the broomstick, it was quite obvious wasn't it? He was the seeker for Slytherin, and he loved nothing more than flying. Well, except picking on little Gryffindors, perhaps.  
Draco looked up, and realized that Ginny had drifted over towards the cauldron, apparently captivated by the scents of the potion.

"To me, it smells like fresh baked cookies, rain, and.." she frowned, not knowing how to describe the last one. "Well, the Burrow." she finished. The Burrow just had a smell of it's own, that made her a little homesick.

Draco hadn't really paid attention - what did he care about what Weaslette liked? But something caught his attention, and he cautiously looked up.

"The Burrow?" he asked inquisitively, unable to hide his curiosity. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but Draco wasn't a cat, so why should he worry?

"My home." Ginny replied shortly.

_Home._ The word made Draco... jealous? No, Malfoys were never jealous. He had everything: money, looks, brains. Everything...except a home. Yes, Malfoy Manor was a magnificent, grand house. Yet, it was only a house. Never a home. His father had always been - still was- relentless about Draco's future as a Death Eater, ever since he was but a young child. It had never made for a loving, warm home. His only solace had been his mother, a seemingly distant woman, yet she had always shown Draco the closest thing to love he'd ever had.

"Yes, well I'm sure your little shack is lovely, but it must be nothing compared to the Manor." Draco remarked, covering his thoughts with harsh words. That seemed to be his only defense.

With that, the little Weasley had grabbed his vial of Amortentia and thrown it to the ground, shattering it, before giving him a deadly glare and stalking off.

*~*~* _End of Flashback *~*~*_

Draco groaned, letting his head fall into his hands. Why was the memory bothering him so much? It wasn't as if he cared about her feelings. He didn't care about feelings or much else. Deciding it must have been caused from lack of sleep, Draco shrugged it off, standing up and slinking back to the Slytherin dungeons and into the warmth of his Head Boy quarters.


End file.
